


Mochaccinos and Mistletoe

by wildewinged



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Flirting, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewinged/pseuds/wildewinged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Go back to Starbucks and make… frappuccinos or cappuccinos or whatever it is. I'm busy." Castiel himself has only ever enjoyed black coffee, maybe with a little cream. Anything else seems like too much, an overcompensation - much like he feels about Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mochaccinos and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [jayesfables](http://jayesfables.tumblr.com/) for [deancasweek's](http://deancasweek.tumblr.com/) Dean/Cas Secret Santa!
> 
> I was going to wait to post this here until my submission went through on tumblr, but the blog seems to have gone inactive. So, my apologies for the lateness, and I hope the holiday-ness isn't completely irrelevant at this point!

Castiel shelves the last of the new vampire series on the "bestseller" rack and sighs. He can't comprehend how, firstly, it can be a bestseller already even though it came out today, and secondly, why on earth yet another young adult vampire book is so popular. Surely the populace should have moved on to another mythical creature by now. He bends down to pick up the next of the books in the stack (James Patterson plus random coauthor), and when he straightens back up he has company.

"Dean," he sighs. Even without the little dark-green name tag, he's learned his name by now.

"Heya, Cas," Dean says brightly, customary (and obnoxiously gorgeous) smile in place, as always. He leans against the just-shelved books. Just far enough that he's not really in Castiel's way, but close enough that he can't be ignored.

"It's Castiel," he reminds Dean, though he'll disregard it. Castiel continues shelving around Dean as best he can. He has to skip the Patterson books for now, though - Dean is leaning on that part of the shelf. "I take it you're on your break."

"Mmhmm," Dean hums, crossing his arms. Perhaps he should look into a different t-shirt size; the current one is stretching absurdly over his biceps. "I woulda brought you a pastry, but we didn't have any as sweet as you." The line is over-the-top on its own; Dean's wink is a ridiculous addition.

Castiel levels his best dead-eyed stare. "You cannot be serious." The reply serves to address the ridiculous fluttering in his stomach as well. He is _not_ attracted to this ridiculous barista and his terrible pick-up lines. Dean just shrugs, unrepentant.

Done shelving the rest of the bestsellers, Castiel looks down at the remaining Patterson hardcovers. With a gentle shove to the center of Dean's green Starbucks-issue apron Castiel moves him out of the way, Dean still grinning maniacally (not adorably) at him, and Castiel slides the books into their place. "Go back to Starbucks and make… frappuccinos or cappuccinos or whatever it is. I'm busy." Castiel himself has only ever enjoyed black coffee, maybe with a little cream. Anything else seems like too much, an overcompensation - much like he feels about Dean. Too much of a good thing isn't good for anyone.

Dean pushes off of the bookshelf but maintains the air of a relaxed sprawl somehow, casual and careless. "Alright, I'll stop bugging you. Don't suppose you'd want to meet me after your shift, cup of coffee or maybe dinner…?"

Castiel fiddles with the empty book cart. "You suppose right."

Shrugging, grinning, Dean says, "Worth a shot." There's a swing to his step as he walks away, despite the rejection. He's probably used to it by now. Still, Castiel wonders how he maintains such a bright (and doggedly persistent) attitude.

\---

Castiel's working the help desk one quiet afternoon, quiet enough that he's reading when a customer comes up to the counter. He looks up - and up, and up. "Hello, how may I help you?" Castiel asks the giant, standing so he doesn't have to crane his neck.

"Hey, I just need some help finding some textbooks for next semester -" the guy starts, breaking off as he looks down at Castiel's name tag. He grins. "So you're Cas."

Castiel frowns. "Excuse me?"

The man laughs. "God, I'm sorry, that came out weird. My name's Sam," he says, holding out a hand that Castiel shakes after a moment of hesitation. "I'm Dean's brother - Dean Winchester?" Sam continues.

"…Ah." Sam's looking at him oddly. "Yes, I - I know Dean." Castiel adds, unable to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice.

"It's just, he talks about you a lot," Sam says.

Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Really?" He can't imagine Dean would have much to say on the topic - fifteen minutes of flirting, even if it's nearly every day, isn't really much to talk about, is it?

Sam shrugs. "I dunno, yeah? He says you have good taste in books, which I guess is good for someone who works in a bookstore."

"He pays attention to what I read?" Castiel squints down at the book in his hands as if Rumi can give him the answer. Honestly, he'd thought Dean was only focusing his attention on - well, not his taste in literature, that's for sure. Wait, Dean likes what he reads, too?

"Yeah, I mean it's different stuff than his love affair with Vonnegut, but he seems to think it's cool," Sam says. Castiel didn't realize he'd said that out loud. Sam continues, "Thanks for that, by the way, it's nice not to hear the same exuberant praise for once. Slightly different exuberant praise now," he laughs.

"Right," Castiel says, blinking slowly. "Uh, you mentioned textbooks?"

"Yeah, sorry," Sam says, rummaging in his pockets for a moment before tugging out a list. "These are the ones."

"It's no problem," Castiel assures, and if he glances over to the corner of the store where a certain barista works more than often while he's fetching the books, that's nobody's business but his.

\---

A touch of nosiness (and sneakiness) marks the next couple of weeks for Castiel. Now that he's watching Dean all the time, rather than the reverse, he has to acknowledge a few things.

One, that though it may feel that way, Dean does not devote his every waking off-work hour to flirting with Castiel. He's found him wandering through the fiction section more than once, flipping books open and skimming the pages. Though he does note that more than one of the books he chooses has been Castiel's weekly employee recommendation.

Two, that the snippets of conversation a person might overhear while standing around the corner from Starbucks in the less-busy hours defy expectation. Or logic. One day Dean and a girl named Charlie are comparing battle tactics used in the Napoleonic Wars to those in various Lord of the Rings battles. The next, Dean and the new hire - Kevin? - have a heated debate over the merits of Star Trek versus Star Wars. Another day Dean seems to be trading recipes with a woman named Ellen. It's baffling. And intriguing.

Three, that even when Dean isn't directing mossy green eyes and a blinding grin in his direction in particular, it's still nearly as devastating.

\---

Finished with his shift, a busy one in the prime shopping season of late December, Castiel fiddles with his name tag. He's only procrastinating, and he knows it. "Pull yourself together," he tells himself firmly, tugging the nameplate off and straightening his button-down shirt decisively.

His stroll across the store to Starbucks looks more confident than he feels, he's fairly certain. The holiday lights twinkle a merry counterpart to his restless nerves, aggressively cheerful reindeer seeming to mock him as he passes. Nonetheless, he marches up to the counter (no line, thank god) and looks a bemused Dean right in the eye. "I'd like a black coffee, hot," Castiel says. "Not as hot as you, though. I'd get third-degree burns."

For a long, painful second Dean doesn't react at all. Then he's doubled over with laughter, eyes scrunched shut and breath wheezing in a vaguely worrying way. "Oh my god, Cas," he finally gasps. "That was fucking awful." He swipes a tear from the corner of one eye, still chuckling.

Castiel sniffs. "You've said far worse. Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"Have not," Dean snorts. "I am an artist. And of course I will."

"You are absurd. There's a poetry reading in half an hour at a cafe down the road. They serve very good burgers for an Italian place."

"Your face is absurd. And that sounds great." Dean beams at him, and Castiel can't help but grin back in the face of such merriment.

Castiel sits at a table near the counter, nursing his hot-but-not-Dean-hot coffee for the rest of Dean's shift. Dean whips his apron over his head theatrically the moment the clock chimes eight, hustling over to where Castiel's waiting with an amused smile.

They both bundle up with scarves and hats for the walk over; light snow has begun to swirl in the darkness outside the store. "Hey," Dean nudges his shoulder, smiling in a mischievous sort of way. "Mistletoe." He inclines his head to a streetlight ahead, where a curly sprig of the plant sways in the brisk wind.

Castiel looks at it for a moment, thinking. Then he walks over and plants himself directly under it, raising his eyebrows challengingly. Dean just stares, so he taps his foot and sighs. "Are you going to make me wait here all night?" he asks.

That breaks Dean out of his little interlude, and he jogs over, smiling softly. The knit of his mitten is cold but soft against Castiel's cheek, and he lets himself be angled into a soft kiss, Dean's lips warming under his, melting the night's chill away like an open fire.

The huff of breath they each let out once they separate crystallizes between them, and Castiel tilts his head the little bit necessary to bump their noses, now red with cold, in an Eskimo kiss.

"No line about the mistletoe?" Castiel asks wryly.

Dean shrugs, then smirks. "Nah. I've got better things to do with my mouth."

"Terrible," Castiel murmurs against that very mouth a moment later. But he really has to agree.


End file.
